The Day the Phoenix Died
by Holl-e-wood
Summary: drama, two chapters total, written after HBP and before DH HBP spoilers. This was my way of showing that Severus Snape, even after HBP, was still Dumbledore's man.
1. part one of one

The Day the Phoenix Died

(part one)

The old man tossed and turned in his sleep, his face hardening as slumber turned into a nightmare. His head jerked on the pillow, his greasy black hair, streaked liberally with gray and white, framing his sallow-skinned face as he curled in on himself, as if to hide form his own thoughts, his own dreams—his own memories.

For the nightmare was a memory, every tedious minute of it, every heart-wrenching detail exact and sharp and as crystal clear as it had been that night, all those years ago, that night on top of the tower.

"Severus…"

That voice, that old voice he so suddenly detested, cut him like a knife to his heart, sending the icy venom of regret to freeze his thoughts, his resolve, his soul.

"Severus… please…"

Bile rose in his throat. And at the moment he hated that name and the person who called it, himself for his cowardice and for his actions, revulsion for the gloating faces around him and the battle within him, the battle that could not stop his arm from raising his wand, could not stop his harsh voice from echoing the vision of death he saw before him.

And as he stared into the eyes of the man he had condemned to death, Severus even hated the fleeting farewell he could read there, a flash of insight and—his breath caught, his anger flared, the connection wavered—a hint of song and warmth and crimson, beating wings… and then it was gone, the eyes were distant, empty, and this small gift was buried under rage and a cover of self-inflicted cold heartedness.

Inside the battle raged, drowning out all else. He could not be distracted… he must not be distracted…

But then, at his own clear incantation, the silver-bearded man before him rose, was thrown back, and fell, and all hell broke loose around him—yet within the battle had stopped, was over, and in its place was an awful, frozen stillness he had felt before, would always feel, could never escape…

He was running. Running as though the life he no longer cared for or believed was truly there was in danger, running from the broken fragments of a fragile peace and vows kept and promises broken and terrible, terrible mistakes, and he was running from the young, terribly young boy who chased him, who was their legacy.

In his sleep, the old man tensed and jerked, his conscious mind struggling against what he knew was coming next, trying to awake, to stave off the moment of utter collapse—

—and yet as always, it came, the cry, the accusation, the feared secret set loose to destroy—

"_**Coward**__!"_

And he froze, everything stopped, and it echoed, this cry, in his mind, and the stillness erupted into a fury that surprised him, shocked him, tore away what was left of feeble control—and he screamed, and kept screaming, and couldn't stop screaming, not inside, even though he was running, running for the life he no longer believed in, with the life he had to save, from those he had destroyed and those who would now destroy him—with his blessing. The horror overwhelmed him, obscuring, overloading his senses, suffocating him in fear and hate and rage and pain… oh, that familiar, aching, tearing, pain, augmented and enhanced by crimes so much greater… so much greater…

The accusation echoed through his screams, worlds shattered, dream-reality dissolved and a concrete here-and-now took over. With the strangled gasp of a dying, drowning man the old man awoke, drenched in sweat, wide-eyed and staring into the impenetrable darkness of his room and of his mind, hands shaking and soul trembling.

And for a long, long time, all was silence.

Then gradually, in the warmth and stillness of the room, the softening presence of time pushed back the immediate horror of the dream-memory, his breathing slowed, and his hands stilled. He sat quietly, empty, sick-feeling and alone… blessedly alone…

Yet the echo of that scream never truly faded; never could, never would, he knew. His eyes were still haunted with the old accusation and the old revulsion, and he knew again it would never be the same, could never be the same, that he would always be running—from the past; from himself; from the memory of what he had done and what had been done to him, from the echo of a scream and from tears that had never come, tears that would not come now had not fallen on the day the phoenix died.


	2. part two of two

The Day the Phoenix Died

(part two)

He couldn't stop shaking.

The old man clenched his hands, refusing to give in to the anguish he could feel eating away inside him, at his soul.

_It is in the past. It is over. It is _done

But the words didn't help. The words never helped, and the only one who could help was far beyond the cares of this world… by his own hand…

The memory gnawed at him, giving no peace. Each time the calming distance of time tried to assert its buffer between his heart and the guilt another crystal-clear picture would wash over him, and he would bury his face in his hands, the torture un relenting, unanswerable… and deserved…

He was sick with the thought of the dawn. It came slowly, gray tendrils of sunlight reaching out to embrace and warm—but not him. Never him.

Somewhere outside his darkened room the world was awakening, and the cruel, mocking sunlight would look upon him and reveal his guilt—condemn him, again—but those blue eyes would never again look into his, never be able to—

_Once again he was staring into fervent blue eyes, and a hint of song and warmth and crimson, beating wings filled his mind, a powerful taste of something not quite in reach of true memory—_

That brief memory of a thought, passed along so quickly, so swiftly, one moment of brightness in the madness on top that tower, so firmly stifled under the needs and black urgencies of that moment, surfaced quickly as a vision. The world seemed to stop, and the old man nearly forgot to breathe as, all at once, for this first time in years, something resembling a shadow of hope blossomed in a forbidden corner of his mind.

—_a song of joy, of power and beauty—aching beauty—he was not worthy, yet those blue eyes watched and beckoned and smiled, and he reached out with a tender strand of fragile trust—oh, it was hard…_

The old man jerked from his reverie, and, in the sudden stillness of the predawn light knew that unearthly sound had not been all memory, all dream.

He denied himself the vanity of hope—but all the same he rose, and walked toward the window. He reached out—slowly—hardly daring to breathe, he pulled back the curtain—

The song filled the air again, and the old man saw in a swirl of red and gold

—_a flash of crimson, beating wings—_

the most magnificent bird he had ever seen peel away from him, up, out towards the sky, reaching up as high as that first pink golden ray of sun which suddenly streamed out above the horizon, heralding the promise of day.

And suddenly the old man was running, stumbling out the door into the cool dawn air, robes billowing out about him as he clumsily followed the bird's majestic flight on the ground. He blinked, squinted, unused to the light after being so long in darkness, but he saw the bird as it wheeled away—up, up, into the cloudless sky—and his heart ached. He could not follow it, for somehow the dream-memory had come to life again, was here in the present, hounding him, but he _knew_ if he could only follow the noble creature everything would, somehow, be all right…

A single golden, scarlet tipped feather drifted down out of the blue. The old man, as though in a dream, reached out for it—brushed it gently with his fingertips—and suddenly firm claws settled on his shoulder, and he was tearing through space and time with the dark knowing eyes of the phoenix seeing the way, guiding him, leading him on—

And they stopped, abruptly, and the old man staggered, landing in a heap on the ground, too exhausted from nightmares and this long, long battle to begin to understand where, or why or how.

It seemed a long, long time later when a gentle, ethereal song called him back to the here-and-now. He shivered, feeling the shadow that was cast over him. With a sudden sense of dread, the old man's eyes snapped open.

He was lying on the ground, with the phoenix circling above him, and to his left, like a sheltering wall in a storm, was a cold white tomb.

Horror erupted in the old man's mind.

_No! Not now, it cannot catch up now, not when I can no longer run—_

But something was different.

This time, for every note of damnation and guilt that his past played out on the stage of his mind, a chorus of song burst from the phoenix, who was coming lower—closer—each note a drop of healing balm, a reassurance—a soft acceptance—a gentle comfort and stern rebuke to his guilt and his pain and his blame.

At that moment the sun broke above the horizon for real, and the warm light played down blindingly on the tomb, and the phoenix call was intensified, beautifully inexpressibly vibrant and real and comforting, intermingled with the wind as the old man, through squinted eyes and a hand upheld to shield his face, read the fine-lined inscription, so cleverly hidden, on the side of the tomb.

And the memory of the last farewell those blue eyes had held returned again, and for the first time, he heard the lyrics of the song, and the soft, gentle voice in the beating of gold and crimson wings.

…_You were always forgiven, my friend... Did you not know? All that remains… is to forgive yourself_…

The wind died; the sun's glare softened and the old man dropped his hand. The phoenix song slowly died away into echoes, and all was still—even within his soul.

And then after a moment, after a lifetime, for the first time and the last, the tears flowed, and dark eyes cast out the demons that had haunted them for so long, and it was good; it was right; it was time… and blessed, sweet relief swept him away on the wings of forgiving, lasting, loving peace, and finally to a gentle nothingness.

The old man awoke slowly, in stages, curled up in a warm wall in his own bed. All was quiet—all was still. His heart gave a great leap of fright—something must be wrong, something had happened—but a sound, or perhaps the echo of a sound, called him fully to his senses, and the brief panic subsided, and he was calmed. Slowly, a jumble of memories—of a moment, of a dream, he could not tell—came back, confused and uncertain, but there and real and good. The old man sat up slowly, running a hand over his face and his hair as though he had never felt them before, eyes wide and looking around the dreary chamber as though it was all new and unexplored, as though no painful memories had ever been housed and sheltered by the walls. Then slowly, he looked down, to see, curled softly, gently cupped in his right hand, a single gold and crimson feather.

And he smiled—and a single tear rolled down his cheek, both happy and sad, filled with a sudden peace and a sudden joy that rested on the calm waters of forgiveness—but above all, a knowledge: that the day the a phoenix dies…

…it always finds a way to rise again.


End file.
